Untitled as of yet!
by Nocens Lupus
Summary: Jack feels an ill wind blowing, what does this hold in store for Port Royal? This is the prologue to a hopefully long story. I'm looking for a beta reader so if anyone knows of onewants to be mine, please let me know!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything I'm writing about, if I did, this would be a film and I'd be rich. I'm just doing it for the love of the fandom.

**Notes:** This story germinated from a dream that was so vivid I just had to write a story. I've fleshed it out and started setting it down. Be prepared for a long journey, this fic will be posted in chapters, but I can't tell you how many. I'm aiming for one a week. I'm also looking for a beta to read this and offer any tips.

All the old favourites will make an appearance, Jack, (obv!), Will and Elizabeth as well as a new baddy, (boo, hiss!), and a new fantastical treasure. I love reading nautical stories and I'm hoping that this is going to be a nautically and historically correct story. Every bit is researched to the best of my ability. If you need to know anything I've usually found all my info on Google, so that's a good place to start. I promise it will have a title soon too! Please, please review if you read. I like encouragement, it's me rum!

**Prologue**

It was a bleak dawn that day, the sea as calm and still as a millpond, such as he had not seen for many months. The sky was empty; save for a lone gull flying out in the west, clear of cloud and of respite from the harsh sun that had started her unassailable ascent an hour earlier. The night watch were still at their posts, strange to see as they appeared to be standing asleep, lax in their watch – a flogging offence – and one he had never enforced. What had stirred him this early? His first mate was in charge for another hour at least according to his mental rote, but nevertheless he could not return to his cabin. There was an ill wind blowing and a creeping sensation in his gut told him from which compass point it originated. His brow pinched in concentration. It was too late for the rum of last night to have any lasting effect and too early for him to have consumed the amount needed to explain this creeping unease away. He'd set great stock by his intuition since he'd been betrayed and marooned, vowing never to trust blindly or be fooled willingly, but did that include being mislead by his own thoughts and cursed emotions?

Belay that.

For the first time in nigh on ten years it wasn't just himself he was misleading, not just himself going off on a whim, taken by a fancy that no one could explain. No, now he had a crew to command. A crew that would look to their captain for guidance, whose lives and freedom depended on him: a crew that would trust him, no matter what, to lead them through whatever trouble they may encounter. Squinting at the horizon Jack tilted his head, as if trying to listen to a whispering voice tickling his ear. What if they realised the truth? What if, after the order had been given, Gibbs started to look at his motives a little too closely? Jack winced at the phantom pain the thought brought with it, his fingers tightening on the rail. Could he honestly lead the Black Pearl's crew back into certain _lethal _danger without warning? His brain ached. The gnawing sensation in his gut growing stronger as he fought a war with himself, his head twitching from side to side.

"Cap'n?" Gibbs' voice cut in from somewhere to his left, but Jack refused to look directly at him, fearing that his indecision would show in his eyes. "Cap'n, have ye got any orders?" That, Jack knew, was the pertinent question. Had he? He knew what his heart was screaming at him to do, what course to plot, but how would Gibbs react? How much longer could he captain his crew by wrapping his intentions in riddles, before one of them decided that enough was enough? Ever since the Isle de Muerte, the Black Pearl's crew had steadily increased in size until he was only a couple of hands short of a full compliment. If they wanted him gone, there wasn't much he could do about it. Indeed, if they really did mutiny, the first Jack would know about it would be when he either landed in the deep blue, or felt the kiss of a steel blade. But since when had Captain Jack Sparrow let such little trifles worry him?

"Orders? Orders. Yes, I have. We are plotting a course due east; sailing until I tell you otherwise." He risked a glance at Gibbs, who had taken a step back at the words, narrowing his eyes as if trying to foresee their destination.

"Due east you say, Cap'n?" Jack gave a concise nod, his beads jangling loudly in the brightening morning. "Due east it be then. Change of course, lads!" As Gibbs walked away he risked one last glance back at his capricious captain, noting with trepidation how stiff Jack was holding himself and how white his knuckles were as they gripped the wood of the Pearl as if his life depended on it.

Jack rubbed his head in agitation, his mind in turmoil. Perhaps the slide towards mutiny would start that morning, for he could give no satisfactory explanation as to why he was ordering the ship to be brought about, away from the rich merchant ships ripe for looting, and back towards a port that had prices on all their heads. No, there was no satisfactory, logical reason for altering course, but there was an intuitive, emotional one.

There was trouble in Port Royal.

+ 


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Storm clouds gathered on the western horizon on the same day that land was sighted. A torrent of roiling darkness bled across the sky, the barometer dropping like lead in front of Gibbs' eyes. Wrenching his gaze away he looked across to their destination, shaking his head in resignation. They were going to be in for a rough blow. The crew on deck saw his gesture, their eyes darting from the storm behind to the safe haven in front. They all knew that the storm would break long before they made landfall, leaving them in the mercy of whatever gods they believed in. Usually it would be the captain's name on most of their lips, offering up whatever meagre pledges they could in the hope that he would keep them safe and see them through.

But Jack wasn't on board.

It had been early yesterday morning that his disappearance had been noted. First Gibbs, then Anamaria had scoured the ship, bilges to mizzenmast, in some vain hope that he had holed himself up with his beloved rum and drunk himself into a stupor. That hope had only lingered for as long as Anamaria's temper held, but Gibbs had taken the news with a more relaxed outlook. Jack was Jack, never there when the day to day running of the ship was underway, but at the first sign of trouble he popped into existence at exactly the opportune moment. Which, Gibbs had to admit, would be right about now.

"So, now what do you suggest we do? Still think Jack's goin' to turn up and save the Black Pearl?" Anamaria's voice cut through his thoughts, making him flinch involuntarily. She was starting to have the uncanny knack of turning up when least expected, much like Jack.

"Aye, Jack'll be back. He'd never leave the Pearl without a good reason. He'll be here." His voice sounded far more confident then Gibbs felt, but deep down a small part of him believed in Jack. It always had, and Jack had never given him reason to doubt him. At least not yet. Turning to face her Gibbs noted that the wind was rising, pulling strands of Anamaria's dark hair loose, swirling them like tendrils of mist through the air. He lowered his voice, shielding his thoughts from prying ears. "Jack wouldn't've bought us here unless it was for a good reason; and we both know that Jack only counts treasure, the Pearl or Bootstrap's son and his Missus as good reasons to do anything now." Anamaria frowned, scrutinizing Gibbs' face for any signs of uncertainty.

"For Jack's sake I hope you're right. He still owes me that ship," she glanced at the crew nervously watching the rapidly encroaching storm, "and I don't think this crew will accept another of Jack's stories." A sudden burst of icy air rattled the rigging, making everyone jump imperceptibly. Eyes turned heavenward as the first fat droplets of rain fell out of the leaden sky, the sea's swell rising steadily, the Pearl's bow cresting higher before settling on the other side. Their conversation forgotten Anamaria looked at Gibbs, an unspoken exchange of orders and counter orders given in one glance, before they broke apart, moving to their respective duties.

"All hands on deck! She's comin' up fast!" Gibbs rang the watch bell as if Lusca herself was rising from the depths, the men spilling out of the hatches, rum fumes permeating the air. Some stumbled on the pitching deck, owing more to their drunkenness than lack of sea legs, but most made double time, swarming up the rigging to the sails above, the rain falling as hard pellets, the heavens as dark as God's wrath. "Storm try-sails! Look lively ya scurvy dogs! Cotton!" Whirling Gibbs ran to the wheel, where Cotton was desperately fighting against the pull of the sea, muscles straining with effort, Cotton's parrot peering up from his safe perch under the stairs.

"Must pull harder, pull harder." Giving the parrot one of the filthiest looks he could muster under the circumstances, Gibbs threw himself at the wheel, hauling it inch by inch back on course, the salty foam spraying into his face as his sweat mingled with the sea. Above him he could hear the hollers of the top men as they were battered relentlessly, the pitch and yaw of the Pearl's deck more pronounced, climbing forty foot waves nearly vertically before crashing down as the wave broke around them. He could feel the ship under him, her every creak an angry protest at the sea's betrayal, every grunt and groan wrenched from her crew echoed back to him, every man, (and woman), fighting for the Pearl's survival. The why's, the how's, the doubts were all forgotten as the storm moved directly over them, Anamaria's voice coming from somewhere distant, the ship almost slowing as she started another monumental climb up a wall of sheer water. For a second Gibbs couldn't breathe, if she didn't crest the top, if either Cotton or he lost their grip, even for a second, if she swung round on her beam ends… then all would be lost.

+ 

The land was dry and cracked, the sun bright and hot as it beat down on the lone figure cresting the rise of one of the hills surrounding Port Royal. It had been a long day, and an even longer night and Jack had no idea of what he was going to find, no idea of how, in fact, he was going to find whatever it was he was looking for. From where he stood Port Royal looked unchanged from the militarily influenced town that had nearly hung him out for all to see, swinging on the breeze. The fort was still there, nearly back to its previous glory and the Governor's house he knew was still standing, but he'd given that residence a wide berth. He had no idea if Elizabeth was living there or not, and to be honest he didn't want to get too involved in exactly what she thought of him for turning her dear sweet William into a pirate. He knew that was one conversation best left avoided for the foreseeable future. Besides, his intuition was screaming at him to move, the connection to whatever had happened firmly rooted in the sea and nothing to do with Miss Swann.

So what _had _actually happened? Everything was at peace, the happenings of a few months past seemingly forgotten, Captain Jack Sparrow erased from the general memory. Erased to such an extent that Jack was finding it ludicrously easy to wander through the town, making his meandering way to the blacksmith's shop. Deftly avoiding yet another stumbling drunkard, which of itself was a point for concern, he quickly ducked into the shadows between two houses as a far too sober man walked past. Even though he paid Jack no heed it was still best not to take any chances, his disguise was good, but wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny. After all, how many dread locked monks did you see in Port Royal, or anywhere else for that matter? Peering around the corner of his cowl he watched the man as he strode purposefully off in the opposite direction. So far so good.

If memory served correctly the blacksmith's shop should be just around the next building, although the last time he had found it was entirely by accident, and as he left it unconscious in the company of the dear Commodore, he had no idea if his sense of direction was still right or not. Trying to affect a monk-like walk, but still managing to look debauched at the same time, Jack sauntered the last hundred yards to his destination, only to stop as his eyes tried to make sense of what lay before him.

"Ah. So _that's_ what happened." He glanced over his shoulder; checking the coast was still clear, nobody daring to come near what more than likely now had the reputation of being cursed land; and stepped closer, inhaling the scent of charred and rotting wood. His foot hit something metallic, hidden under the fallen masonry and grime. Stooping he reached out a hand gingerly, as if afraid whatever it was would object to being touched. Carefully he brushed away the ashes of what was left of Will Turner's home to reveal what had once been the hilt of a beautiful sword. A sword that he remembered Will must have practiced with daily, up until the shop burnt down around him. For some reason Jack wiped the hilt clean on his cassock and secreted it away, something telling him to keep it close.

"Ah, I'm sorry, father, ah, but we need to start searching for the, er, the remains. Was it the Governor that asked you to come?" A hesitant voice broke through Jack's reverie and with a startled yelp he realised that he had dawdled too long. Straightening slowly Jack turned to face a short, rotund man, his cheeks rosy from port and an easy life. Behind him stood, or more accurately slumped about three men, if you could call them that, not one of them older than nineteen, carrying shovels and sledgehammers. The man was grinning amiably at Jack, with just the right amount of pious pity mixed in. Jack hated him on sight.

"I've come to bless this tortured place. Heard that nobody would come near since it happened." His brain suddenly rewound what the man had said, one word playing over and over in his head. "What d'you mean, remains?" The smile still held on the man's lips, but now it didn't quite manage to reach his eyes, his gaze moving to the blackened shell as if drawn there by some invisible force.

"The, ah, the proprietor was, ah, trapped inside. Very nasty business. He could be heard, ah, screaming for help, but, mhm, nobody could get to him, flames and whatnot." Jack's blood turned to ice at the words. Burnt alive, was that really Will's fate? Even the slow agonizing strangulation that hanging bought with it was preferable to burning and given the choice every man knew which he'd prefer, pirate or no. The man's voice cut in again. "So, we've been charged, ah, with the duty of recovering the, ah, poor man's remains." Jack's shoulders slumped, defeated before he had the chance to intervene, Will's screams echoing in his ears, screams that would forever go unanswered. Darkness started to bubble up inside him, a boiling anger at the stupidity of the people who just stood by and watched a person burn. Jack's fists clenched in his cassock, fingers itching to reach out and throttle the self-righteous expression off of the man's face, his breathing deepening as his rage grew. For the first time doubt seemed to settle in the man's eyes. "Ah, which, ah, monastery are you from?"

"Didn't say." His words came out like flint, in a voice not even Jack recognised, hard and brittle. "Why didn't he get out when it started?" Surely not even Will could have been stupid enough to stay in a building he knew was on fire, unless there was something, or someone, preventing him from escaping.

"The general, ah, consensus was that he, ah, was drunk. Well known for it apparently. The, ah, son attested to the fact." Drunk? Son? Stomach somersaulting, Jack felt his legs weaken, the anger that was so quick to rise suddenly transmuting into hope. His eyes moved over the wreckage of the blacksmith's, breath catching in his throat; surely fate wouldn't be kind a second time…

"Where's the son now?" The man turned sharply, his eyes narrowing at the distinctly un-fatherly tone.

"At his own shop, over on the, ah, other side of town. So, which monastery _are_ you, ah, from exactly?" There was movement behind them, the three boys behind them picking up on the change in the man's voice. Suspicion seeping into the conversation.

"We're still building it, over at New Spain. First lot of monks due to be shipped over later this month." His muscles tensed; fight or flight instincts kicking in, options quickly being scrutinised and discarded. "The Governor asked me to pop over, see how God-fearing people were in this lovely port. I'm sure I'll be able to tell 'im that there's nothing to worry about." The man deflated slightly, but the suspicion didn't completely leave his eyes. "Not if you and your fine men are anything to go by." Chest puffed out the man nodded, agreeing that he was indeed the finest example of an upstanding citizen to be found. "Best be off. Places to see, people to bless. You know how busy god makes us. I'll be sure to let Him know about you." Sidestepping away Jack tried to walk with a modicum of decorum, until that is, he reached the other end of the street where he lifted the cassock high above his knees and ran pell-mell in the opposite direction of what used to be Will's home.

A couple of breathless enquiries and the hurried burial of a dog later, and Jack was finally standing outside the second blacksmiths in Port Royal. Any relief that Jack might have felt at knowing that Will hadn't perished in the blaze was lost as he noted the door was ajar. Giving it the slightest push with his fingertips Jack jumped back as the door swung inward, the lock broken, handle hanging uselessly.

"Hello? William?" Edging inside he sniffed the air experimentally, a certain _otherness _pervading his senses. He moved, ghostlike, around the rooms, hovering over Will's possessions, his hands reaching, but never touching. It was almost as if he'd disappeared one morning, recently too by the look of his room and bed, simply vanished, popped out of existence in the blink of an eye. There were no signs of a struggle, no signs of anything at all, if Jack were truthful, just Will's own belongings and precious few of those. Opening a small chest by his bed, Jack's eyes caught a glimpse of red velvet secreted at the bottom, his hands immediately reaching inside and pulling out the tightly wrapped bundle. Carrying it over to the bed Jack unrolled the velvet to reveal a shining cutlass, blade sharp and true with a filigreed hilt. As Jack's fingers closed around the hilt and lifted the blade up for closer inspection he could feel the perfect balance that Will had bestowed upon the blade, the way the sword became an extension of himself, a deadly weapon in the right hands.

The sounds of marching feet drew Jack's attention to the window. Creeping over he drew back the curtain slightly to see a troop of armed soldiers moving down the street in the direction that he had come from. Frowning, Jack deftly fastened Will's sword to his belt before quickly leaving the room and the house. Perhaps it _was_ coincidence, but through years of experience Jack had come to trust his instincts far more than any rational thought he might have. A breeze pulled at his cowl, threatening to blow his disguise off, and Jack reached up to hold the offending piece of clothing in place, noticing for the first time how dark the sky had become. Hurrying down the narrow streets he came out suddenly onto a small stretch of beach near the harbour, the sea rising rapidly, each swell bigger than the one before, an ominous rumbling echoing across the bay and a strengthening wind blowing through the leaves. White breakers hissed and grumbled at the shore, greedily stealing the land from beneath his feet as he froze, watching the storm taking possession of Port Royal. From behind he heard the bangs and crashes of people battening down the hatches, shops closing in rapid succession as the first lashings of ice cold water rained down upon them.

"Bugger!" All pretence of monk-hood forgotten Jack stripped off the habit and ran down the beach towards two floundering fisherman trying vainly to moor their small boat, screaming at the top of his voice. "Oi! You two scallywags!" They froze mid knot as Jack bore down upon them, snatching the rope from unresisting fingers and pushing the boat back down the beach. "I'm commandeering this boat in the name of the Commodore! You can go an' check with 'im!" As the beach disappeared and foaming blackness took it's place, Jack jumped lithely into his 'commandeered' vessel, leaving two bewildered men bleakly staring after their lost possession.


End file.
